


Bad Blood

by Little_Lat



Series: Blood Ties [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt d'Artagnan, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lat/pseuds/Little_Lat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you know the paitent’s name? Are you his next of kin?”</p><p>“d’Artagnan de Lupiac, but no, no I’m not,” Athos’ voice felt rough in his throat. It felt like, if it were to crack, it would take the last of his resolve with it, “We’re friends, colleagues.” </p><p>“I suggest you get in contact with his next of kin, make them aware of the situation, just in case."</p><p>---</p><p>d'Artagnan's apprenticeship was never going to run smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my third installment in the "Blood Ties" universe. It's a longer one, I hope you like it!

“Sir? Sir can you hear me? Keep pressure on that wound!”

Footsteps hammered on the cheap hospital floor as the group of physicians kept pace with the patient on the gurney. One held the makeshift bandage of Athos’ jacket firmly in place against the gunshot wound, crimson blood staining both the navy material and the doctor’s skin. Other hands flitted all over the young man’s body, carrying out vital checks as they made their way towards the operating theatre.

“Blood pressure’s dropping!”

“We need a transfusion, what’s his blood type?”

“I-“ Athos, who was only half a step behind the group, faltered. He didn’t know. He and Porthos were O, Aramis was B positive but… “I don’t-“

“Prepare a pint of O neg until we can test,” the lead surgeon cut across the man’s words as they reached a pair of white double doors. Athos watched as the group push through the door first and tried to follow, but was stopped by one of the medical staff who had broken off from the swarm around his friend.

“You cannot go back there, Sir. I can assure you he is in the safest hands possible. Do you know the paitent’s name? Are you his next of kin?”

“d’Artagnan de Lupac, but no, no I’m not,” Athos’ voice felt rough in his throat. It felt like, if it were to crack, it would take the last of his resolve with it, “We’re friends, colleagues.”

The Doctor nodded, his lips a thin line of worry. Athos felt his anxiety spike. d’Artagnan’s blood was stiff in the materiel of his shirt, it had seemed like so much as he had seen it pool on the cold floor. Of course he knew blood could look deceptive, but there had been so, so much…

“I suggest you get in contact with his next of kin, make them aware of the situation, just in case,” The Doctor touched Athos’ shoulder in what he assumed was meant to be a comforting gesture, “Take a seat. I’ll return with news after the surgery.”

As the man disappeared through the double doors Athos collapsed into the nearest seat.

_Just in case…_

* * *

 

3 days earlier

“d’Artagnan!”

The boy’s head shot up. His concentration was only broken for a moment, but that was enough. A hand shot out and smacked against his sternum, his feet were swept out from underneath him a heartbeat later and suddenly he was falling. He smacked down onto the mat, the air knocked from his lungs as a smirking Porthos loomed above him. The man’s eyes danced, the sadist probably _enjoyed_ defeating the younger man.

“Distractions get you killed, Pup. Come on,” He reached out, offering a hand up which d’Artagnan gratefully took. Porthos hauled the apprentice back to his feet with no more effort than lifting a bag of shopping and slapped him on the back.

“What distracted you anyways? You were givin’ me a run for my money until-“

“D’ARTAGNAN!”

The boy flinched, turning to see his furious mentor striding towards him. Athos’ hands were curled into fists and looked about ready to strangle his wayward apprentice (who was currently resisting the urge to hide behind Porthos).

“What ya’ do?” Porthos muttered as Athos made it to the mats, his furious gaze effectively nailing d’Artagnan’s feet to the floor.

“I…”

“What are you doing here?” Athos growled, the sound curling dangerously from deep inside his chest.

“Sparring..?” d’Artagnan offered weakly.

“Sparring…” It came out as a scoff. _Must not murder apprentice…_ Athos reminded himself as he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are supposed to be with Ninion. Imagine my surprise when I walked past and saw her alone in the tech sweet. Apparently you told her I needed you for some assignment…”

When he looked up, d’Artagnan at least had the decency too look ashamed of himself.

Porthos’ eyebrow raised and he let out a low whistle as he glanced between them.

“You lied to Ninon? She’s gonna’ cut your balls off.”

“I might just _let_ her,” Athos growled. He reached out and grabbed d’Artagnan’s shoulder with his good arm and shoved him towards the door, “Move it. Now!”

“Wait, wait!”d’Artagnan danced out of his mentor’s reach, the motion only heightening Athos’ current homicidal urges.

“Don’t test me, d’Artagnan! I have better things to do with my time than chase you round the Garrison because you don’t _feel_ like going to your lesson.”

“It’s not that I don’t feel like going!” d’Artagnan frowned but kept himself out of grabbing distance, just in case, “It’s, it’s just…”

Athos clearly wasn’t in the mood for d’Artagnan’s excuses, so Porthos stepped in, metaphorically and literally. It seemed best there was someone between d’Artagnan and his frustrated mentor in that moment.

“Why are you avoiding, Ninon?”

Porthos watched their young friend as his shoulders rolled forward and hand shoved deep in his pockets. Suddenly d’Artagnan looked every inch the 20 year old he was. Porthos often forgot just how young their newest team member was. The rest of the Musketeers had spent time excelling in their fields before joining the ranks. Even the youngest, greenest recruits had at least 7 years on d’Artagnan. However, despite that fact, d’Artagnan had found his footing in the organisation just fine. He held his own in the ranks, but in moments like this? He looked so young…

“Because I _can’t_ do it!” d’Artagnan kicked at an invisible object on the mat, glaring at it as if it had personally caused all of his problems, “And she makes me feel stupid…”

And there it was. Porthos shot a look over d’Artagnan’s head at his friend who was looking, marginally, less furious.

Ninion - the 30 year old, 6ft 1, blond haired ballbuster - was team lead of unit 4 but also the Musketeer’s resident computer genius. Athos, after d’Artagnan had failed his technical skills certification for the second time, but arranged him time with Ninon to try and drag his skills up to standard. Of course, Ninion had a reputation of being a hard task master but Athos had thought an intensive course with someone other than himself would have done the boy good. What he hadn’t expected was for his apprentice to be hiding in the combat gym rather than face the woman.

Athos sighed, “d’Artagnan…”

“What Athos?” d’Artagnan sighed, his foot kicking out again at some invisible menace, “I can’t do it. I can’t pass it, and me sitting there having to listen to Ninon tell me how I’m not _listening_ or _trying_ or how it’s _not that hard_ isn’t going to help! I have passed _everything_ else! Done everything else, but what i-if-“ d’Artagnan’s voice cracked, emotions his emotions betraying him, and he flopped onto the mats. He ducked his head, hand buried in the hair which had escaped from his bun.

“What if you don’t pass in time…” Porthos supplied for the kid who just nodded unhappily from the floor.

Athos, suddenly, felt like a bit of a dick. The boy’s apprenticeship was fast approaching it’s conclusion and d’Artagnan had passed almost everything. The checklist Treville had given d’Artagnan to have completed by the end of his year had been hung up in the Unit 2 office. Everything had been ticked off, everything but one. Athos thought they were making good time. d’Artagnan had sailed over the hurdles Athos had expected to cause problems. He’d taken a month for his written French to be up to scratch, hadn’t complained once as he’d thrown about the mat by Porthos and Aramis during hand to hand training, he’d done so well. To be honest it had taken Athos by surprise to see his apprentice have so much trouble with his last hurdle.

Clearly, it had taken d’Artagnan by surprise as well.

With a sigh Athos lowered himself to the mat, weight pressed on his good arm and watched Porthos do the same.

“You will pass,” he sighed, nudging the kid’s shoulder with his own.

“And if I don’t?” d’Artagnan’s glare could have burned a hole in the practice mat they sat on, “I’ll be out.”

Athos swallowed. Treville had been clear on this little apprenticeship experiment. d’Artagnan had one year to gain the skills to the level which would be expected of all new Musketeers. It was now month 11, technical skills was the last hurdle. Athos was _sure_ d’Artagnan was capable but the two failures had been rattled the boy. He only had one left. All recruits had three attempts. After three attempts on any certification they would be forced to go through a second course. For others it wouldn’t be the end of the world, but if d’Artagnan was forced to take the class he would never pass his certification in time. The 12 month mark would pass and there would be one unchecked box on the checklist. His confidence had been shaken.

“We’re not gonna’ let that happen, Pup, you’re one of us now. We don’t leave people behind,” Porthos slung his big arm round his friend’s shoulders, dragging d’Artagnan closer to his body. Athos was slightly relieved when he noticed a small smile on the boy’s lips.

Athos slipped a hand onto the boy’s other shoulder, “Porthos is right you know?”

d’Artagnan nodded slowly, “But Ninon doesn’t help.”

“Fine, fine… Perhaps asking for her input was my mistake,” Athos conceded. He was actually one of the few people who _liked_ Ninon. She commanded her team with a rod of iron and Athos respected that. Still, maybe he was just a masochist. Perhaps placing d’Artagnan with her had been a mistake, he could see that now.

Still though, d’Artagnan needed help. He’d failed that dratted exam twice under Athos’ questionable tutelage which now presented a problem.

“But we still need to sort something out for you…” Athos reminded himself as much as anyone else.

“Why don’t I have a look with you tonight?” Porthos offered. He smiled and nudged the boy, “Maybe I can do better than Grumpy Cat or Ice Queen.”

Athos let out a groan and shoved away, “Don’t you start with the nicknames… I won’t condone it from you _and_ Aramis.”

Porthos growled, but Athos was almost sure he was joking as he stood up and reached out a hand to help him up. The man raised an eyebrow and shoved himself to his feet without help.

“I doubt your shoulder is up to lugging me around.”

Athos rolled his eyes, but did concede that Porthos was probably right. He’d had two surgeries in all on his arm. One straight after he had been rushed to hospital which had ensured his arm still had unobstructed blood flow and reconstructed the joint (with the help of copious amounts of metal), and one following his three months in a cast to remove the majority of pins. His elbow still contained four of the largest pins, but they were to be there for life. Thomas had done too much damage for his arm to repair itself on its own. The doctors had done their best but his arm would never be what it once was. Athos had come to terms with that. After coming so close to death a weakened arm which ached in the cold seemed a small price to pay.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched d’Artagnan flinch, his eyes shooting to the newly constructed arm with a worrying gaze. The boy had never admitted it to Athos but he still harboured a great deal of guilt over the injury. Whenever Athos’ kidnapping was mentioned, or d’Artagnan’s role, the boy would get this tight look on his face as if he was trying to hold down vomit. He still held himself accountable for his mentor’s injuries, even if Athos had never blamed him. d’Artagnan had been coerced, forced. How could he ever be blamed for actions which he hadn’t chosen? Athos hadn’t quite worked out how to bring up the subject with the boy though. He had never been good at that sort of thing.

“That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for lying,” Athos distracted d’Artagnan’s foray into his guilt trip. The boy looked up, a little nervously.

“You need to go and apologise for lying to Ninon.”

d’Artagnan pulled a horrified face as Porthos burst out into laughter.

“Oh she’s going to eat you alive,” Porthos bounced on his toes, looking like a kid with a treat dangling right under his nose, “Can I watch? Do I get to watch?”

“She’s going to kill me…” d’Artagnan groaned which elicited a grin from his mentor, “You’re going to have to explain to Constance why I’m in the hospital and not home for dinner.”

“More for me, great,” Porthos threw his arm around the boy’s shoulder and stirred him towards the door, “Can we stop by the vending machine first? I like a snack with a show.”

 

* * *

 

“Constance, when are you going to leave the pup and run away with me?” Aramis gave the woman at the head table his most winning smile. She smiled back though d’Artagnan shot his friend a pointed look as he cleared the dirty plates.

“At least wait until I’m in the next room to proposition my wife, please?” He nudged the romantic good naturedly as he walked passed, hands filled with plates, into the kitchen.

Constance arched her eyebrow from her position at the head of the table, her elbows resting on the table, fingers laced together and chin propped on top. Athos mused yet again, from his position opposite Aramis and next to d’Artagnan’s empty chair, that Constance was not what he had expected. d’Artagnan hadn’t said much about his fiancée during their time together under Rochefort’s control, but from what he had said Athos had formed a picture of a shy, nervous girl who needed protecting.

Constance was none of those things.

“Oh but how could I deprive the woman of the world by keeping you to myself?” Constance smiled, although it froze somewhat with Aramis’ mutter of “never said it would be just you…”

Athos snorted outright, though+ buried his face in his glass of wine when Constance’s piercing glare was turned his way.

As d’Artagnan returned to the little dining room with a second bottle of wine Athos watched the way he settled himself at Constance’s side, watched the way his arm slipped round her shoulders and hers his waist. It was plain for the other three men at the table to see that they loved each other, mind you that had seen that from the moment he’d met Constance.

_It had been clear, d’Artagnan’s first day in the Musketeers, that Constance had was at the forefront of his mind. After his re-meeting with Porthos and Aramis he had turned to his brand new mentor, nervously hopeful._

_“The Captain said Constance was at a detention centre. We have her passport, do I have to sign the contract first or…”_

_Athos took pity on the kid, shaking his head, “We can go to the centre. Come on, I’ll show you the garage and –“ he faltered and glanced down at his right arm which would be firmly useless._

_“Well we’ll take one of the automatics.”_

_The drive had been quiet, but Athos had noticed the boy fidgeting in his seat from behind his sunglasses. Perhaps nerves? Excitement? His hands clutched onto the two Passports like a life line. He flipped to the photo pages at least twice._

_“Will it…” He muttered after a moment, “Will it work? They will let her leave?”_

_Athos frowned a little, although didn’t take his eyes from the road, “Those aren’t fakes d’Artagnan. They are real French passports. Treville doesn’t do things by half. She is, now, a French citizen, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”_

_d’Artagnan nodded, flicking the passport open yet again. They didn’t say anything else until they pulled up in front of the detention centre. It looked, Athos couldn’t help but think, like a prison. A big grey building with thick concreate walls and locked doors everywhere. d’Artagnan looked nervous as he stared up at the building in front of him._

_Athos slide his left hand onto the boy’s back, “You ready?”_

_“Yes. Yea let’s go.”_

_They were buzzed into the reception to be met with a dark haired woman sat behind a wide desk._

_Athos removed his sunglasses and folded them into his pocket, “Good morning, I’m here concerning an inmate brought in on The Silver Room raid.”_

_“Name?”_

_“Constance de Lupiac.”_

_The woman looked up over her computer screen and sighed as if Athos was personally ruining her day, “I need your name.”_

_“Athos Alexander,” Athos passed over his ID. The woman tapped the information into her computer and then, much to Athos’ satisfaction, watched the colour drain from her face._

_“Mr Alexander. I’m sorry. We weren’t informed of anyone of your rank coming – sorry who was it you were here to see?”_

_It was a guilty little pleasure, but watching bitchy receptionists jump to attention when they realised the slightly scruffy 36 year old in front of them had a priority 2 security clearance was quite amusing._

_“As I said. A woman who will have given the name of Constance. I would like one of your interview rooms made available for my associate and myself to speak with her. Now.”_

_The woman nodded and immediately began muttering into her phone. Athos glanced at d’Artagnan and allowed himself a small smirk, “One of the perks of the job,” He muttered, “I love watching them panic when they realise who I am.”_

_“I thought Treville said people don’t who the Mu-“ d’Artagnan broke of, before rephrasing, “that you all exist?”_

_“Oh they don’t, but the moment they type my name into any government database my security clearance pops up. Priority 2. Only people who outrank me is Treville himself, the prime minister and a few select cabinet officials.”_

_d’Artagnan frowned, “Do you all have such high clearance?”_

_“Not as high,” Athos murmured a little smugly, “Unit leaders have 2, rest of the team members have 3. Recruits in their first year of employment have 5, probation. That’s where you’ll be.”_

_d’Artagnan nodded, digesting the information as the woman nodded and hung up and looked to the men._

_“Mr Alexander, the inmate has been brought to interview room 1,” She stood, smoothing down her skirts, “If you’ll follow me?”_

_They were given visitor badges and lead through the warren of a building. They passed through at leave 3 separate locked doors and by the third Athos could see d’Artagnan begin to sweat. It wasn’t surprising, Athos supposed, the boy had lived in fear of these very places since he had come to France. Now he was walking through the corridors like he owned the place. It had to be a disconcerting feeling._

_The woman stopped in front of a locked door, “the inmate has been moved Mr Alexander. There is a button by the door, please press it if you are in need of assistance or have finished.” She swallowed, eyes flickering nervously between the two men, “I’ll just… Leave you alone…”_

_Once the woman had retreated back through the locked doors. Athos waited until she was out of sight before he turned to d’Artagnan and nodded to the door._

_“Well then, go on…”_

_d’Artagnan took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He stepped inside and Athos followed, closing the door behind him but keeping himself far back to give them space._

_A young woman sat on one of the two chairs in the room, legs pulled up so her feet rested on the metal edge, her face buried against her knees. She was dressed in the detention centre’s grey uniform, wild red hair falling around her shoulders._

_“I’m not talking. You are wasting your time. Find someone else to risk their life talking to your lawyers because I’m –“_

_“Constance…” d’Artagnan’s voice was thick. He watched as the woman’s body stiffened, “Constance please.”_

_Her head raised up, confusion mixing with apprehension in her gaze, before she fired out of her seat and into d’Artagnan’s arms. The force of the little woman made the kid take half a step back._

_“You’re here! How are you here?”_

_d’Artagnan’s hands wrapped around her body, her head buried in his chest. Athos had to admit it was a sweet moment, right up until Constance pulled back and hit d’Artagnan, full force, in the shoulder. Athos muffled a chuckle._

_“Are you crazy?” She hissed in Russian, “You know what this place is? Why are you here? What are you thinking? They’ll never let you go! You’ve given yourself up for what? Oh you stupid, stupid – d’Artagnan what were you thinking? What about Rochefort? What about-“_

_d’Artagnan’s hand caught the woman’s face between his own and silenced her with a kiss. When he pulled back there were tears in her eyes, a frown gracing her face when she realised that d’Artagnan was smiling._

_“Constance it doesn’t matter. Rochefort, his thugs, none of it. Constance, just…” d’Artagnan kept one hand on the woman’s cheeks and dug into his pocket, “Look…”_

_He passed the two passports over, giving Constance time to take them in. She turned them over in her hands, flicking through the pages with shaking fingers._

_“d’Artagnan… d’Artagnan where did you get these? If we are caught... Fake Passports,” Constance looked up, “That’s not deportation, that’s jail!”_

_“They’re not fake,” d’Artagnan pressed a kiss to her forehead, “They’re real and they’re ours. Our luck has…”_

_Suddenly d’Artagnan seemed to remember there was a third person in the room. He wrapped his arms around Constance and her gently, towards Athos who had stayed lent against the closed door._

_“Constance there is someone you need to meet,” d’Artagnan pressed another kiss, this time into Constance’s wild hair, “Constance meet Athos Alexander…”_

Constance had been unsure of Athos at first, reasonably assuming Athos was just another Rochefort, ready to take advantage of vulnerable people. Athos couldn’t really blame her for that. But over the last 11 months she had become not only comfortable around Athos, and eventually Aramis and Porthos, but had become a down right mother hen. At least twice a week d’Artagnan was sent to the Garrison with instructions that they were expected for dinner in the couple’s tiny flat. It seemed that Constance had made it her personal mission to make sure Unit 2 was not living solely on takeout cartons. A crusade which Porthos and Aramis were all too happy to be a part of.

“Right,” Porthos pushed back from the table, “I believe we ‘ave some studyin’ to do…”

d’Artagnan nodded although Athos raised an eyebrow.

“How are you planning to prep for the assessment without the tech suite?”

Porthos looked a little sheepish. He bent and picked up a black duffle bag, “I may have borrowed a couple a’ bits and pieces….”

“You have thousands of euros worth if equipment in a _bag_?” Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, imagining Treville’s face if he could see how some of the unit’s most expensive equipment was being transported.

“Nevermind…” Athos held up a hand to silence Porthos excuses, “I don’t want to know. At least then I can plead ignorance.”

Pothos’ grin looked rather reminisant of a child who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and had gotten away with it. Athos just rolled his eyes.

“Constance do you need help with the dishes? The less I see, I suspect, the better.”

 

* * *

 

“You are to set listening devices in an outside camp,” Porthos read what felt like the millionth question from one of the preparation handbooks he’d liberated from the Garrison. The two men were sat on the floor in the couple’s tiny living room, an array of different tech spread out over the coffee table. Aramis lounged on a nearby chair, nose buried in his phone and legs kicked up lazily over one arm.

“This will likely be the only opportunity to plant these devices and monitoring needs to continue for at least 10 days. The monitoring team will be stationed between 7 and 10 miles away. Which device do you choose to employ?”

d’Artagnan frowned down at the table. His hand reached out, hovering over the five different kinds of bugs on the table. His hand reached down, aiming for the second on the left, but froze after a cough from the armchair.

“Aramis!” Porthos growled and tossed a pillow at the man, who dodged it easily without looking up from his phone.

“What? Can’t I cough?”

“Don’t help him! You aren’t gonna’ be there when –“

“This one?”

Porthos turned to d’Artagnan and studied the listening device in his hand, “Why?”

“Waterproof,” d’Artagnan turned the little silver device in his hand, “Short range and has a battery life of 32 days… Right?”

Porthos nodded, “Yea, nice one. What about if we wanted ta’ listen to it back at the Garrison?”

It was a trick question, Porthos knew it was difficult, but after a small pause d’Artagnan picked up a small black box, no bigger than a matchbox.

“Same bug, but add a booster within a mile radius. Doesn’t need to be set inside the camp. Booster will only last 15 days, but if I can be easily changed.”

Porthos’ eyebrow shot up, “Good answer…”

“Give me another?” d’Artagnan asked as he set the two pieces of tech back into place.

“d’Artagnan I think you’ll be fine. You know this stuff. You need to go in there Friday, keep your head on straigh’ and show ‘em what you know.” Porthos lent back against the wall and set the textbook at his side, “You’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just don’t panic. You’ll be fine.”

The boy just made a non-committal “hmm” and grabbed the book. Porthos rolled his eyes but left d’Artagnan it. Instead he just let his eyes drift shut as he enjoyed the quiet. Muffled voices drifted in from the kitchen which lulled him gently into a relaxed state. It was quite enjoyable right up until Aramis let out a string of curse words.

“What?” Porthos eyes shot open just in time to see his friend’s feet hit the floor.

“Anne just texted me-“

Porthos let out a groan which received the pillow being returned at his head. Really though, his worries were founded. Aramis’ on again off again affair the Deputy Prime Minister of France’s wife was enough to turn anyone’s hair grey.

“How is the lovely Anne Royaline? Come to her senses ‘nd dumped your ass?”

“Jealously is an ugly colour on you, Porthos,” Aramis ran a hand over his sculpted beard, “Anne was supposed to be travelling to some gala in Marseille tomorrow. Some other wife from the cabinet was ment to go with her but she’s gone and broke her leg… No way that woman can fly.”

“And this is your problem because…” Another pillow got tossed in Porthos’ direction.

“Anne hates flying, especially alone. Remember that time we accompanied her to that summit in Spain?”

“You mean the time you disappeared from the hotel room all night, missed your guard shift, then got caught coming out of Miss Royaline’s personal suite carrying your shoes and tie?”

Porthos decided to quit while he was ahead as Aramis eyed a coffee cup as if wondering if he could throw that as well.

“But yea, she had to drug herself up for the flight. What’s she gonna’ do now?”

“She doesn’t know. She’s panicking,” Aramis sighed, “She has to go but everyone she’s asked has commitments… She just needs someone to fly with her, they don’t even have to go to the Gala. Could just lounge around the hotel if they didn’t want go get all dressed up and –“

Aramis paused for a moment, before a small smirk slid onto his face. Pothos’ eyebrow shot up as his friend got to his feet, without explanation, and headed into the kitchen.

“Oh Constance? How would you like an all-expenses paid trip to Marseille this weekend?”

 

* * *

 

If d’Artagnan didn’t stop sulking, Athos mused, he was going to have to lock him in a room somewhere away from his phone so he couldn’t check it every second.

Constance had only been gone over a few hours. She’d flown out with Anne that morning, they were likely dancing the night away. Aramis had stressed the point that she didn’t need to attend, but Constance had been so excited at the prospect she had almost bounced off the walls. She’d tugged a sullen looking d’Artagnan away from the room to help her pack and had been ready for the 9am flight within the hour. So far d’Artagnan had read out one text from Constance and Aramis one from Anne, both gushing praises about the other woman – and that had been before the flight had taken off. Aramis had an annoying smug on his face, declaring more than once that he’d “known that they would hit it off”. In reality Athos was fairly sure he was such scoring brownie points for his next night with Anne.

But where Aramis was smug d’Artagnan just looked nervous. Athos knew the young man was worried. Since Constance’s release from the detention centre they’d spent practically every night together. d’Artagnan seemed determined that nothing was to separate them again, not after Rochefort had smuggled them into Paris under false pretences used the woman as a pawn to bend d’Artagnan to his whims. After their seemingly miraculous escape from that life the boy seemed determined that Constance never be put in harms way again. His concern came from a good place he also had to realise that his wife needed a life beyond him. Her friendship with Anne seemed like a good place to start.

“Don’t,” Athos’ voice rang out in the office. Three heads shot up from their work, although only d’Artagnan’s hand stilled on the way to his phone, “Or the phone is going out the window.”

Reluctantly d’Artagnan withdrew his hand, leaving the phone untouched.

“Sorry,” He mumbled.

“You need your mind focused,” Athos reminded him, his head nodding towards the clock, “You have three hours before your assessment. You don’t need to be worrying about Constance.”

“She hasn’t texted since this morn–“ d’Artagnan began, although was cut of mid-sentence.

“She’s having _fun_ d’Artagnan!” Aramis rolled his eyes, “Anne told me she had a whole day booked for them before the Gala. Spas and all that girly crap. Constance has probably been pampered to within an inch of her life.”

“I’d feel better if there were Musketeers there…”

“The Gala has put on their own security,” Athos reminded the boy more gently than he’d felt like, “Constance is safe, now please will you focus.”

d’Artagnan mumbled something under his breath in Russian but did look back down at his textbook. Aramis caught Athos’ gaze and rolled his eyes.

Their youngest was such a worrier.

 

* * *

 

 

d’Artagnan’s knee jiggled up and down as he sat outside the examination room. It was 5 minutes to 9, the world outside surrounded by darkness. His appointment was the last of the day, the last assessment of the week. If he failed for a third time..? The boy swallowed, forcing his mind to recite the properties of each piece of equipment he had committed to memory. He could do this… This was the last hurdle between him and his own commission. No more apprenticeship. He would be a fully-fledged member of unit 2 of the Musketeers. A year ago d’Artagnan could have never imagined how important this final test would be, or how much he wanted what was tantalisingly close, dancing on the other side. He wanted the commission he had worked so hard for. He wanted to be one of them. He longed to belong to the regiment that saved his life and had given him a death.

4 minutes to go. The churning in his stomach upped its game. d’Artagnan swallowed and checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time but it had yet to change.

With his leg still bouncing up and down it took d’Artagnan several seconds to notice the vibration against his thigh. He frowned and dug the little phone from his pocket. A picture of himself and Constance flashed across the screen. Constance had taken the photo, her head rested on his chest and d’Artagnan’s lips pressed into her hair. It had been their first in their new, tiny flat. They hadn’t had much that first night. The flat had been leased with only bare essentials, a fridge, cooker, mattress, that sort of thing. That first night had been spent on their mattress with a bundle of blankets. The night had been cold and their flat had been bare but that first night was one of d’Artagnan’s favourite memories. Ever. Because they had made it. They finally had what they had been promised. A flat, a life… Hope.

That photo always made him smile.

d’Artagnan hit the button to open the awaiting text iMessage.

20:57 Constance

_Let your wife out to play? How kind…_

D’Artagnan frowned at the phone as another iMessage bubble appeared on the screen.

20:57 Constance

_You made it too easy for us. I suppose I should thank you._

20:58 Constance

_Nobody crosses the Guard without consequences, Charles._

Icy realisation crashed over d’Artagnan as a phantom hand reached into his chest and squeezed his heart until blood roared in his ears.

20:58 d’Artagnan

_Who is this? Where is Constance?_

20:58 Constance

_Rochefort was rather dear to me, Charles. You took my right hand, it’s only fair I take something of yours._

20.59 Constance

_You better hurry, Charles. One hour, the cells. Come alone or the next time you see your wife will be her funeral._

d’Artagnan was out of his seat and moving as his hour curfew began ticking. His heart beat was still pounding in his ears, he didn’t even hear the door slide open and his name being called for the beginning of his examination.

 

* * *

 

Aramis’ phone buzzed against his desk, the opening bars of “Hold Back the River,” by James May ringing out through the office. Athos let out an audible groan. He knew _exactly_ which woman had that ring tone in Aramis’ phone. He was going to get into some amount of trouble if he kept messing around with Anne Royaline. Aramis just wiggled his eyebrows suggestively before hitting the accept call button.

“And for what do I owe this unexpected call from such a beautiful woman?”

“I thought d’Artagnan asked you to stop flirting with me?”

The choking sound which erupted from Aramis’ caused both other men to look up, looking to Aramis with questioning gazes.

“Constance! I mean - how can I help you this evening?”

A muffled laugh erupted from the other end of the phone call.

“Am I not the beautiful girl you were expecting? I’m not going to ask, it’s none of my business.”

Aramis rubbed his free hand over his cheek bone, silently thanking God for Constance’s discretion. Had someone else been on the other end of the phone? Well that could have been disastrous.

“And I thank you for that. Although is there a reason you are using Anne’s phone?”

“Oh _Anne_ is it?”

Aramis groaned out loud as he heard more giggles from the woman.

Constance at least decided to take pity on the man and stop teasing him, “I wanted to speak to d’Artagnan, I’ve lost my phone – haven’t seen it since the flight. Is he there?”

“He’s in his assessment,” Aramis leaned back in his seat, “Can I pass on a message? You met some handsome diplomat? Filing for divorce? I can’t say I blame you, the brat is pretty moody…”

“If you could just tell him I called, that would be enough. I’d rather he hear that heart breaking news from me. I’ll tell _Anne_ you said hello…”

Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose, realising he was likely never going to hear the end of this. He muttered a goodbye and hung up. His gaze returned to his computer, ready to get back to work, when Porthos piped up from the window.

“You talking about d’Artagnan? He’s meant to be in his assessment?”

“Yea,” Aramis glanced at the clock which had just passed 9, “He only just started…”

“You’re sure?”

“I walked him there myself.”

Porthos frowned, “But that’s his bike?”

“What?” Aramis pushed back from his desk and moved next to Porthos, following his gaze. He was right. One of the garage boys had brought out the beaten up black and yellow Yamaha Porthos had nicknames Bumblebee – much to d’Artagnan’s disgust. There was no mistaking it though, that bike belonged to their youngest. As they watched the man in question burst out of the Garrison, without even his jacket which still hung on the office door behind them.

“What is that moron doing…” Athos’ voice, suddenly close behind Aramis’ ear, made him jump. How did that man move so _quietly?_ “Call him.”

Aramis hit d’Artagnan’s speed dial and the three men watched as d’Artagnan fished out his mobile in the street below and, after a moment of indecision, reject the phone call.

“Son of a –“ Aramis hung up of the woman offering him to leave a message.

“Think he failed the assessment?” Porthos watched as d’Artagnan shoved his helmet on his head and swing his leg over the bike, “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it…”

Athos shook his head, “It’s a 45 minute exam. Unless he forgot his own name…”

d’Artagnan slammed up his kickstand and the lights bathed the street in a yellow glow, wheels spinning under him only moments later.

“Where’s his lap top?” Athos muttered as the others watched their apprentice disappear along the dark street.

Aramis heard footsteps behind him and, once he had turned, saw Athos sat at d’Artagnan’s desk. Their team leader frowned down at the screen (Aramis didn’t even _want_ to know how Athos knew d’Artagnan’s password) as his fingers flew across the keyboard.

“Who did you say was on the phone?”

“Constance, but she was using Anne’s, said she had lost her’s…”

A string of curses filled the Unit 2 office curtesy of their leader.

“Oh the idiot…” Athos ran a hand threw his hair, gripping the shaggy locks at the roots, “The utter fool…”

He spun the laptop round, revealing the most recent iMessages sent to d’Artagnan’s account.

“Look.”

Aramis and Porthos leant forward and scanned the bubble conversation. Normally Aramis would scoff quite happily at d’Artagnan’s tendency towards Apple products, although now the linked up software was a Godsend. As they finished their faces wore matched expressions of worry.

“Aramis get a trace on his bike. I want to know where he’s going,” Athos ordered, slipping naturally into his role as leader, “Porthos bring a car around, we need to get after him. The idiot’s about to walk straight into a trap.”

 

* * *

 

The cold didn’t seem to reach d’Artagnan as his motorbike tore through the Parisian streets, even without his jacket. He was lucky, in the state his mind was currently in, to have even remembered his helmet jammed on his head or the gun strapped at his waist. His mind instead was focused on the only person in his mind who could have sent those texts, could have Constance.

Rochefort might have been in charge of the trafficking side of the Guard’s business, but he wasn’t the Gang’s leader. That was one man, someone d’Artagnan had met only a handful of times. He went by the Cardinal out with his trusted circle, but he had heard Rochefort call him by his real name many times over his time in captivity.

Richelieu…

d’Artagnan hadn’t seen him since Rochefort’s trial, although he hadn’t even been sure it _had_ been him. There had been a courtroom full of people between them that day, besides he had been focused on the defence lawyer grilling him with questions.

_“You testified, Mr Lupac, that the defendant Marc Rochefort was the one to approach you in Ukraine and offer you illegal passage to France.”_

_d’Artagnan nodded. He felt stuffy in his suit, constricted in the crisp white shirt and tie which sat uncomfortably against his neck._

_“That is correct.”_

_“So you admit to illegally entering this country without proper cause?”_

_“I do…”_

_“Is it not fair to assume then, that after this man risked arrest and incarceration for you and your now wife, that you would wish to repay him for his kind actions. You were not shackled or chained. Nothing to force you to stay. Surely that isn’t slavery, just gratitude.”_

_It was then the opening of the courtroom door had caught his attention, silver hair drawing d’Artagnan’s eye. At the back of the courtroom, a thin man in a dark expensive suit and silvery white hair. d’Artagnan blinked, frowning. But a few members of the crowd shifted and the silver haired man was blocked from view. By the time his view became unobstructed once more, the man was nowhere to be seen._

_“Mr Lupac?” The defence authority pressed, “I am sure the court would love to hear your answer?”_

_With an effort d’Artagnan pulled his gaze back from the crowd. Perhaps he was seeing ghosts, shadows of the past._

_“I was grateful when we first arrived and you are right, I wasn’t held by any chains. But they had my wife. Pressed a gun to her head and threatened her life if I did not comply. I might not have been bound but I was not free to make a choice. I was a slave just as much as any chained man.”_

So Richelieu had been there. d’Artagnan hadn’t imagined him in the back of that courtroom. If he had seen the trial he knew that d’Artagnan’s testimony had been the damning evidence which had put his “right hand” in jail.

The Cardinal was well known for how he treated those who betrayed the Guard. d’Artagnan had been the one to scrub the blood from the stone floor after Richelieu had finished with one of the drug couriers who had been skimming money of his drug runs. Although he hadn’t seen the boy’s body, d’Artagnan knew he couldn’t have possibly have survived after seeing the blood left behind.

If he did that do someone who had stolen a couple of hundred euros, what would he do to someone who had cooperated with the police with the arrest of one of his most prized workers.

d’Artagnan’s bike came to a skidding halt in front of the boarded up bar which had once been the hub of the Guard’s operation in Paris. A normal looking bar on the outside, with a variety of rooms and cells below ground level. The last time d’Artagnan had had set foot in this place it had been while Athos had been tied to a chair, been beaten to a pulp by his brother.

The young man swallowed uncomfortably at the memories, though his feet didn’t even falter as he abandoned the bike and took off at a jog. A wooden board on the back door, scrawled with layers of graffiti, had been prised off. d’Artagnan squeezed through into the dark dusty room inside. The boards on the windows blocked out the artificial lamp light from the street outside, so d’Artagnan fished out his phone and flicked on the flash light while his other hand rested on his handgun.

“Richelieu!” d’Artagnan’s voice shattered the eerie quiet of the disused bar, although was met with nothing but silence.

Although he had said the cells…

D’Artagnan’s feet sent dust flying up from the floor boards as he ran for the door to the cellars. Tattered police warning tape, assumedly left from the investigation over Athos’ kidnapping, fluttered lazily on either sides of the door. The door was propped open and d’Artagnan didn’t hesitate, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Richelieu! Constance?”

The long corridor of cells was just as d’Artagnan had remembered from almost a year earlier. All the doors were closed, apart from one at the end of long corridor, an artificial yellow glow oozing out from the doorway.

“RICHELIEU!”

Somewhere in the back of d’Artagnan’s mind he _knew_ he was being foolish. Athos would berate him for letting is heart overrule his head, but he couldn’t stop himself from thundering forward and through the door. There was no chance of tactical decisions when it came to Constance.

He stepped into the room, blinking as his eyes objected to the synthetic lighting. The room was bare, just concreate floor and walls. No Constance. The metallic clang of the door being shut had d’Artagnan wheeling round. A thin pale hand had shut the door, a cruel smirk of a spider watching his prey fall into a trap plastered over the old man’s face.

d’Artagnan’s eyes slide down, ficusing on the metal barrel pointed straight at his chest.

“Gun on the ground, Charles,” Richelieu’s eyes roamed the boy’s body, “And kick it over to me.”

d’Artagnan felt his hands twitch, but knew he would never get his weapon out in time to fire it without being left with a hole in the chest.

“Where is she, Richelieu?”

“Your gun first,” The old man tapped his foot impatiently.

“Fine,” d’Artagnan tossed the weapon on the floor and kicked it in the direction of the door, “Now where’s my wife?”

The smirk which slide onto Richelieu’s face made d’Artagnan’s blood turn to ice. She wasn’t… She couldn’t be… What if he was too late?

Richelieu held up a small black object. It took a moment for him to recognise not only what is was, but _who’s_ it was.

“Your wife should pay more attention of her surroundings,” Richelieu mused, turning the phone easily in his hand, “I could have ordered her throat slit instead of her phone taken… It would have been just was easy.”

d’Artagnan’s jaw set, anger only barely concealed, “If you have hurt her….”

“You never were that bright, Charles,” Richelieu waved the phone in front of him before dropping it carelessly to the floor, “I don’t care about the girl. Why go to all the trouble of kidnapping? Here you are, right where I want you, with only the help of a phone.”

Realisation dawned, bringing with both relief and a new knot of nerves in his stomach.

“You never had her…” d’Artagnan breathed.

“Well done, Charles,” Richelieu eyes narrowed. D’Artagnan noticed the man’s hand twitch only a moment before a bang resounded throughout the room. Pain, white hot and scorching, ripped through his stomach.

“You see it’s you I wanted…”

 

* * *

 

 

“Next left,” The words were barely out of Aramis’ mouth before Athos’ violently pulled across the line of incoming traffic, into the alley indicated. Aramis didn’t seem to notice, his eyes didn’t move from the tablet screen in his hands.

“According to this the bike should be-“

“On the left!” Porthos pointed to the Bumblebee motorbike, abandoned on the side of the road. Athos slammed his foot on the break and Porthos and Aramis piled out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop.

With the building bathed in darkness, and the windows boarded up with disuse, it took Porthos a moment to recognise where they were. It had been a year, but the last time they had been there it had been Athos they had searched for, not d’Artagnan.

“Athos…” the big man let out a deep breath, “Do you know where we-“

“Yes.” Athos answered in a clipped voice. He didn’t look of from the gun he was loading.

“Are you going to be-“

“I’m fine,” Athos cut across his friend and glanced up, “Now are we ready?”

“Ready,” Aramis and Porthos echoed in unison.

 

* * *

 

 

D’Artagnan’s knees hit hard against the unforgiving concreate floor as his body crumpled. His right hand flew to his side the unnerving warmth seeping over his skin and between his fingers. Richelieu stepped forward, his eyes dancing with excitement as he watched d’Artagnan’s natural glow seep out of his face.

The young man’s body wavered, his whole mind focused on staying on upright on his knees. Pain radiated from the wound in his side, throbbing through his body.

“I suffer no fools, Charles,” Richelieu stepped forward and bent down so they could look the young man in the eye.

“And I certainly do not suffer betrayal,” The man reached forward and shoved hard against d’Artagnan’s shoulder. With his balance thrown off he fell backward, d’Artagnan’s shoulder blades bouncing painfully off the floor. He groaned, the bullet hole jarred painfully.

The wrinkled face of Richelieu appeared, looming over above him.

“I’m afraid it won’t be a quick death Charles…” The old man tapped his cheek, the motion making d’Artagnan shudder, “’A stomach wound will ooze blood, drawing out death over hours. Perhaps you can use that time to reflect on your loyalties and how easily you allowed yourself to be bought.”

The fingers continued trailing along d’Artagnan’s face, the pads finding the hollow of his chin and wrenching it upward. A breath cracked out of his lips, the movement of his lungs jostling his wound once again.

“A pity, Charles. You could have gone so far with us… Yet you picked –“

A crash from above cut into Richelieu’s words and drew his gaze upwards.

“I suppose we will have to cut this reunion short,” he tapped d’Artagnan’s jaw and he stretched back up to full height. He raised his foot, nudging d’Artagnan’s blood soaked side none too gently. The action pulled a cry from the younger man, his body shaking as his world pulsated and wavered.

“Goodbye Charles.”

Footsteps clicked hurriedly away as d’Artagnan blinked. His vision began to blur, a weight falling heavily on his chest. The wound needed to be tied off, he needed to get to the main road for help. d’Artagnan _knew_ he had to move but his limbs felt like concreate. He could barely breath.

Another bang from upstairs reached d’Artagnan’s ears, this time a whole lot closer. Muffled voices began to filter into the little room. Shouts of what sounded like his name.

“d’Artagnan…”

He knew that voice! He knew it, but the name was dancing just out of reach. It was like his mind was running through treacle, thick and slow and…

D’Artagnan attempted to call out, but all that came from his mouth was an eruption of coughs.

Footsteps hammered down the staircase to the cells. The calls were louder this time.

“D’ARTAGNAN!”

The name was closer this time, tantalisingly close to realisation, when he heard the metal door be scraped open.

“d’Artag – oh fu- In here! Both of you, NOW!”

A blurry figure, d’Artagnan’s eyes incapable of focusing right now, loomed above him.

“You idiot, d’Artagan what have you – Who did this?”

The shaggy haired figure tugged off his suit coat and pressed it firmly to d’Artagnan’s stomach, making him moan in pain.

“I know, I know it hurts. But that’s what you get for getting yourself shot!”

More footsteps clattered towards the pair, stopping short with muttered curses.

“Athos what- Jesus!”

Athos… That sounded right, the shaggy figure above him. It was Athos.

“There’s no time for an ambulance – here! Porthos, help me get him up.”

D’Artagnan felt something slip under his knees and shoulders, accompanied by an unexpected feeling of weightlessness,

“It’s okay,” Athos promised from somewhere above him. The younger man’s head lulled against his mentor’s strong chest, his words vibrating comfortingly through his body as the elder as he spoke, “I’ve got you.”

“Yea,” d’Artagnan mumbled against his shirt, “y’ do…”

 

* * *

 

The first thing that pushed passed the groggy fog of anaesthesia was a dull, monotonous, beeping. d’Artagnan let out a low groan as a second sensation reared its head out of his subconscious. His stomach _hurt_. No, hurt was the wrong word. The pain seemed a cross between the feeling of something torn and the ache of over stretched muscles. The only thing he could liken it to was during his endurance training with Porthos, 5-6 hours on the mats switching between sit ups, push ups and sparring. After their first session together d’Artagnan had lain, frozen on peas pressed his core, in what had felt like a jellied mess. At the time the young man had doubted it was possible to feel worse, yet here he was…

d’Artagnan frowned, rolling his neck to the side. His eyes opened, pleasantly surprised to find the room he currently occupied was bathed only in a low light. He had expected his bedroom but instead he lay in a single bed, thin white sheet tucked around his chest under his armpits. His gaze trailed down his arm, dark eyes widening in surprise when he saw an IV line hooked to the back of his left hand.

What the… He glanced around the room, the hospital room d’Artagnan noted. He was in a small private room, with pale blue walls and a tiny sofa against one wall. Two people currently occupied that space. Athos, all shaggy dark hair and crumpled day old suit, had his eyes closed, head propped against his hand. Curled up to his side and using his shoulder as a pillow lay Constance. Only her head was visible, the rest of her was wrapped tightly in a blanket. Her hair was wild was always, although it seemed she had tried to tame it into a braid down her over one shoulder. There were dark smudges of make up around her eyes which, d’Artagnan realised with a hurtful pang, had likely come from her crying.

D’Artagnan placed his weight on his hand and pushed up his body, intent on getting to the pair and finding out what had caused her upset, when the scalding hot pain roared to life in his stomach. A gasped ripped from his throat as he fell back on the sheets. He barely heard the creak of the bed springs under him as d’Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut, begging the world to stop spinning.

“It’s probably best not to move…” d’Artagnan heard his mentor’s voice. His head fell to the side and, once he was sure he wouldn’t throw up, he cracked his eyes open.

Athos’ eyes were open, amusement dancing in his eyes against the low light.

“It’s probably best…” d’Artagnan coughed, his throat dry from spending so long asleep, “You stop cuddling with my wife.”

The older man chuckled softly. He gently moved Constance’s head from his shoulder to a pillow as he stood up and came over to his apprentice’s bed side.

“I wouldn’t have to take over your husbandly duties if you hadn’t run off all headstrong and gotten shot.”

“Shot?”

Athos sighed. He rubbed a hand tiredly over his beard before he drew up a chair. He settled himself down at d’Artagnan’s side and set his forearms on his thighs.

“Shot… That would be the ache in your side.”

d’Artatagnan frowned, “Ohh…”

“You really don’t remember?”

“I…” d’Artagnan swallowed, “It’s all a little bit, foggy?”

Athos offered a look of sympathy, as if he knew exactly what it was like to wake up confused in a hospital bed, “It will come back. It’s normal to be a little groggy.”

“Huh…” d’Artagnan nodded, a little unconvinced. Not that he didn’t believe Athos but he felt so dazed. At the moment he couldn’t imagine it lifting any time soon.

“Here,” Athos leaned behind the younger man’s head. When he pulled his hand back he revealed a sealed bottle of water.

d’Artagnan offered a small smile, “Like old times?”

Athos’ eyebrow shot up with a smirk, “I can tie you to a chair if it would help?”

That made d’Artagnan laugh, although he immediately regretted it as his stomach took issue with the sudden movement.

“Easy,” Athos touched his hand to the younger man’s shoulder, “Here, don’t choke.”

He cracked the bottle neck and gently touched it to d’Artagnan’s lips, who gratefully gulped down the liquid.

“Not too much,” Athos drew back the bottle all too soon for d’Artagnan’s liking, “If you keep that down you can have some more in a minute…”

d’Artagnan nodded. The water did a wonder for the fog inside the young man’s mind and, all of a sudden, memories began to return. He groaned softly as he remembered what had happened, what an idiot he had been. He had let his heart rule his head, his biggest issue according to Athos, and had walked into a trap because of it.

“Am I in trouble?”

Athos squeezed his shoulder in reassurance, “Yes… But to be honest getting shot seems like a fitting punishment for acting like an idiot…”

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan swallowed nervously, “I’m sorry. I got texts from Constance’s phone. They said-“

“I know,” Athos soothed. When d’Artagnan risked a glance at his mentor he didn’t seem angry, rather just pitying. That might actually be worse, “We saw the messages on your lap top. Constance had called to say her phone was missing… We put two and two together far before you did...”

d’Artagnan let out a frustrated sigh, “I’m such an idiot…” His hair, dirty from sweat and grease, clung to his forehead which Athos gently wiped out of the younger man’s eyes.

“Yes,” Athos agreed, with the smallest hint of a smile, “But you’re our idiot…”

“Not be for long,” d’Artagnan pointed out, “I didn’t just miss my last assessment, I broke one of the Captain’s rules. I’m surprised he’s not in here to revoke my passport and kick me out the country right now.”

The smirk Athos had been wearing up until that point slid of his face, replaced immediately with apprehension.

“What are you talking about?”

“The rules the Captain gave me. I broke one. Talked to members of the Guard,” d’Artagnan swallowed. The gravity of what he had done was only just sinking in as he voiced his fears out loud. It was only now d’Artagnan realised just how badly he had ruined everything. And not just for him. He looked passed Athos over to Constance, still curled up asleep on the sofa.

Had he ruined this life for both of them?

“Tell me he won’t take Constance’s too,” d’Artagnan pleaded, “She’s only just settled in here. She’s going back to school in the new term. I know I’ve broken the terms of my employment but don’t punish her for my-“

“d’Artagnan,” The younger man stopped mid-sentence, realising Athos was looking at him as if he had grown and extra head.

“Treville is not going to fire you.”

“But I broke –“

“You thought they had _Constance_ , d’Artagnan. Treville would be angrier if you hadn’t done something.” Athos shook his head at the younger man’s fears, “I mean, you were an idiot for going off on your own, but he isn’t going to revoke your citizenship. Do you really think Porthos or Aramis would let that happen? Do you think _I_ would let that happen?”

All of a sudden d’Artagnan’s throat felt impossibly tight. He looked away from Athos’ genuine face, blinking hard. He let his mentor’s words sink in. Athos seemed so sure… Not only of Treville’s feelings on the matter but also the rest of their unit. He really was one of them, stupid, hot-headed decisions and all.

“Here,” Athos, mercifully, changed the subject. He picked up the water bottle and brought back to d’Artagnan’s mouth, “Now stop being stupid and drink.”

d’Artagnan gave his mentor a small smile, and did just as he was told.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this snapshot!  
> Lat ^^


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